I swear, there's something fishy going on here.
I mean, to those who've felt their time percolate away from them like a squirming live eel, there is definitely something going on. One week. Left.
In the refulgent coruscation of scintillating glory that permeates across the distant gulfs of the empty cosmos, the stuff and meaning of life seems a sequestered dream. But whither do we walk the shores, gazing at the perpetuity of the starry empyrean? What for the vistas of those prodigous, herculean dances of gas and refracted light that fill the inky darkness and drives away the night? What for the swirls of dust and matter that coalesce around the newborn stars? The question, the justification, for terrestrial reality remains an ungraspable truth, an abstraction without the capacity for being understood.
And yet we walk the comforting shores and look upon the face of Heaven, and for all our brief existences, there is comprehension.